The Midwinter Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes: Three Adventures & The Grand Gift of Sherlock

by Craig Janacek

  As I suspected, there were two men, both young and far too swarthy to have hailed from our isles. Although dressed in plain clothing, there was nothing of a street tough in their bearing. And while I had done little real damage, their wary expressions suggested that they likely spent more time manning desks in the Spanish Embassy than assaulting former army physicians upon the British rails. Although I was outmanned, they had already forfeited the element of surprise and I had scored every touch in this contest thus far. The narrowness of the compartment also favored my position, for it made it very difficult for both of them to attack me at once. While I might not be in the same league as Holmes when it came to fisticuffs, I was long recovered from the enteric fever that had once stripped my slender frame,[135] and I reckoned that I outclassed either man by almost two stone[136] of still reasonably firm muscle. I regretted that my Webley lay in the bag above my head, where I had stowed it when I naïvely thought the danger averted with Señor Márquez recovered. The pistol might have been in Xanadu[137] for all the good it did me, as any move to retrieve it would bring the closer man down upon me.

  Suspecting that these lads had little stomach for additional violence, I decided that some additional bluster might serve me well. “Buenos días, amigos,” said I, thereby exhausting the limit of my schoolboy Spanish.[138] “Who wants to be the first one to discover the exact sensation of being defenestrated from a train moving at fifty-five miles per hour?[139] I assure you that it will be quite illuminating, should you happen to survive.”

  The closer man licked his lips nervously and took an unconscious step backwards where he bumped into his comrade. I pressed the advantage and moved towards them. Unprepared for finding themselves on the defensive, they both retreated again. That was all the space that I required in order to effect my plan, which was not to use violence but rather to reach for the bell-rope[140] that summoned the conductor. I pulled on it vigorously, and this was sufficient to rout the last remnants of their desire to assault me. The further man turned and flung open the door, after which the two of them fled down the corridor away from where my reinforcements were due to arrive.

  By the time the conductor made his confused appearance, I had not only regained direct possession of the Webley, but determined that the best locale from which to pass the remainder of the voyage back to Kings Cross Station was not in a solitary compartment, but rather in the shielding company of the dining car.

  §

  When I finally disembarked, I spared no expense in encouraging the brougham driver to convey me to Baker Street with all haste. I bounded up the stairs and, throwing open the hallway door, I was pleasantly surprised to find that Holmes had been roused from the gloom of his bedchamber and was residing, fully-dressed, by the fire in a Bath chair.[141]

  “Ah, Watson,” he said amiably, his mood clearly much improved from the day prior. “I was hoping you would be on the first train. Pray tell what you have discovered. I have been to Oxfordshire in spirit[142] following your tracks, and while there is always a need for a detective to have a broad and nimble imagination,[143] nothing compares to actual data.” He leaned back and touched his fingers together in the form of a steeple.

  Happy to oblige, I sank into my old chair and began my account commencing from when we last parted. As to be expected, he interrupted me often, forcing me to go back and recount some part in greater detail. At certain points he made a clucking noise and scribbled a note upon his shirt-cuff.[144]

  When I was finished, he smiled broadly. “I must compliment you exceedingly upon the ardor and the acumen which you have shown over a particularly problematic case.”[145]

  “What I still don’t understand, Holmes, is who has the document in question? If the Spanish had it all along, why attack me on the train? Or did Meyer already send it on?”

  Holmes stared at me for a moment, his eyes shining like stars,[146] before breaking into a convulsive attack of laughter. I frowned in consternation, unclear of the source of his amusement. He finally regained control over his mirth, and drawing forth a surprisingly delicate lace handkerchief,[147] wiped the beginning of tears from the corners of his eyes. “I am very sorry, my dear Watson. But I have been painfully obtuse. Clearly the pain of my leg has addled my wits.”

  I shook my head. “I am not following you, Holmes.”

  “It is rather elementary, I am afraid. Márquez was indeed sent with the document, for as you say, the Spaniards would not be so desperate to get it back otherwise. However, a simple questioning of the cabby Mr. Fenwick will show that they did not stop anywhere before the ambush. Therefore Márquez could not have hidden it anywhere in London. But Meyer also didn’t get the letter when his men abducted Señor Márquez, or he would have no need to question the man, nor remain in the country. He would have been half-way to Berlin with it, to hand-deliver it to his masters.”

  “Where then did it go?” I asked.

  “That is simple, Watson. It went nowhere. The letter never left the brougham.”

  “What!” I exclaimed.

  “Oh, yes. Quick, Watson, before someone else reaches the same conclusion. Go to the corner telegraph office and wire Gregson.[148] Tell him to get the word out to every constable that we need to see Mr. Fenwick and his cab as soon as possible. One of them should be able to spot him and send him our way.”

  I shrugged back on my coat and followed Holmes’ instructions. I waited at the office until I had received a response confirming that Gregson had received my message and then hurried back to my old quarters. But upon my return, Holmes refused to discuss the case any further. Instead, he lifted his Stradivarius[149] to his chin and produced some holiday airs. Just as he was concluding one particularly beautiful melody, he sat upright and set down the violin. “A cab has just pulled up outside, Watson, if my ears do not fail me, as this blasted leg has. I cannot make it down the stairs, so I am relying upon you. Sit in the seat, as Márquez would have, and consider that he would have only had a moment to secrete the document. Decide what you would have done in his place.”

  I nodded my understanding and bounded back down the stairs, where I was met by both Mr. Fenwick and Inspector MacDonald. The latter explained that he heard about Holmes’ message and was curious what he hoped to accomplish.

  “Let’s see,” said I, climbing into the cab. I looked around the interior, which was no better or worse than the standard London vehicle, never fancy in its prime and now well-worn with the passage of many men. I saw nothing of note, and then again decided to take Holmes’ advice. I closed my eyes and felt the seat with my hands. I suddenly noted that the stitching of the seam beneath my right leg had come undone. I slipped my fingers into the space and felt the horse hair stuffing within. But then I pushed a bit deeper and was rewarded with the sensation of something different. Triumphantly, I pulled out a piece of folded parchment, its fragile state indicating that it was clearly an item from another age. Although I knew that Holmes would want to see it forthwith, curiosity and the desire to make certain of my find before sending off Mr. Fenwick induced me to carefully open it. The near-illegible cramped handwriting made it difficult to immediately ascertain what I had discovered, but the language was clearly Latin, not the French I expected of a secret diplomatic treaty.[150] Nevertheless, this strange item could only be the document that so many people were desperate to get their hands upon. I nodded to MacDonald, who dismissed Mr. Fenwick, but not before I could toss him another sovereign for his troubles. The two of us then mounted the stairs to show our find to an impatient Holmes.

  He snatched it from my hands eagerly and began to read aloud, translating as he went:

  “Mary, by the Grace of God, Queen of England, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith,

  Per your gracious command to make known to your Highness all that has transpired since that fateful day in June 1553, I herein relate with mine own hand the doings of your brother Edward. Your blessed kindness is legendary, and you would not permit any of your loyal followers to raise t
heir hands against an anointed king, and one whose blood also coursed in your veins. As you are aware, the idea occurred to you during your brother’s initial illness in January of that year. He rallied, but his appearance was greatly changed afterwards, thin and wasted. You cleverly recalled that episode when an uncrowned imposter briefly sat upon his throne shortly after the death of your father, and had that same imposter secretly brought to Greenwich Palace. To our delight, the lad was already deathly ill with consumption, so there was no need to complete the final transition with the aid of poison, as originally planned.

  Before we removed your brother from the country entirely, we tested the success of our actions by allowing Noailles, the French ambassador, and Scheyfye, the Imperial ambassador to gaze upon the imposter’s dying form. They sensed no subterfuge, and we knew that our plan was infallible. We sent word for the ship, in whose hold your brother was secured, to cast off, and a week later it tied up at La Coruña. From there, he was carefully escorted to the royal palace, and he remains there to this day.

  Since my recall to Spain, I have seen him with mine own eyes and conversed with him on several occasions. I assure you that while he is well cared for, and wants for nothing other than his freedom, all precautions have been taken to ensure that only the most select few know of his existence in El Escorial. His guards were chosen for their undying loyalty to the Crown of Spain, and can neither read nor speak any language other than a peculiar language known as Basque, indigenous to the northwest region of Spain. There is no chance that your brother could ever hope to speak with anyone here, excepting only the few who are aware of his existence and will take that knowledge with them to the grave.[151]

  The 12 of October 1556.

  In testimony of which I have caused my seal to be affixed for the consideration of Your Highness.

  Simon Renard, Sieur of Bermont,[152] your devoted servant.”

  When Holmes had concluded his reading, I slumped backwards in my chair, speechless.

  The Inspector voiced his thoughts first. “This is outside of my sphere, Mr. Holmes. If you wouldn’t mind keeping that letter safe for a wee bit, while I truck off to the Yard and seek some advice from my superiors, I would be much obliged.” He stood and reached for his coat.

  “Of course, Mr. Mac,” said Holmes, smiling.

  By the time he had closed the door behind him, I had recovered my wits. “I can’t believe this letter was just sitting there all of this time, just waiting to be discovered. It sounds like something out of a book!” I exclaimed.[153]

  “There are stranger things in heaven and earth, Watson,”[154] said Holmes. “It brings to mind the Fieschi Letter,[155] which was unearthed in Montpellier shortly before our acquaintance began. Therein lays a claim no less fantastic, that King Edward II, rather than being murdered at the orders of his wife Isabella and her lover Roger Mortimer, escaped from Berkeley Castle by changing clothes with a servant. He fled first to Ireland, then to Avignon, and finally to northern Italy, where he lived out the rest of his life in a monastery.”

  “Could that be possible?”

  “There are many great mysteries throughout the history of our fair realm, Watson. Who shot William Rufus in the New Forest?[156] Did Richard II escape from Pontefract Castle and continue the struggle against Henry IV?[157] Who killed the Princes in the Tower?[158] Was Perkin Warbeck really the escaped Duke of York?[159] Did the Earl of Leicester push his wife, Amy Robsart, down the stairs in hopes of marrying Queen Elizabeth?[160] The list goes on and on. History is written by the victors.”

  “Things would have been very different if Edward had lived,” I mused. “No Bloody Mary, no religious persecution, no Civil War.[161] It is difficult to even consider all of the possibilities.”

  Holmes shook his head in disagreement. “You list only the bad things that followed, Watson. You are forgetting that nature tends to balance itself out. The conflict between religions was likely inevitable, and if Edward had lived, would his half-sister Elizabeth have ever ascended to the throne? Without her patronage, would the playhouses have flourished? Would Shakespeare have been motivated to write his plays? Many wonders may have never emerged. We can marvel at history, and we can study it, for it can be a guide to the future. But we cannot regret the past.”

  I realized the wisdom in these words. “I still do not entirely understand what Señor Márquez was doing with the letter?”

  Holmes nodded. “This was a convoluted case, to be certain. Let me try to elucidate it for you, Watson. As Mycroft noted, the Spanish Empire is tottering. We can only presume that, realizing this weakness, the ambassador ordered that any potentially inflammatory items and documents be secured and removed from the country before they could be captured by foreign agents and used to draw England into a war against them. Márquez must have been put in charge of these efforts, and he took a laudably historic approach to the problem. He researched all of the times when Spain and England were in conflict with each other, starting with the conflict over Charles II’s Iberian and Catholic queen embodied as the Popish Plot. Finding nothing compromising in regards to that plot, in the Archives he nevertheless stumbled upon an older item of even greater importance, what we shall now call the Renard Letter. However, he was insufficiently discreet, and Meyer somehow became aware that Márquez had found an item of note. Meyer determined to take it from him, likely in order to sell it to the highest bidder. Recognizing his danger at the last moment, Márquez dropped the sovereign in the hopes that its presence would eventually come to the attention of his employer, the ambassador, so that he could send additional agents to retrieve the letter. Of course, that is where we came in, and we unwittingly did exactly that with your visit to the Embassy. At the same time, agents of other powers also sought to determine what exactly Márquez had found, hence the man you interrupted at the Lambeth flat. We cannot say for certain whom he represented, but it may have been the Americans, despite the assurances of my brother to the contrary. While it is of far too great a historic importance to simply destroy, we can now ensure that the Renard Letter is kept in a far more secure location, until such time that it is deemed innocuous to release to the public.”[162]

  Holmes paused in his explanation when a knocking on the street door signaled the arrival of another visitor. From the surprised tones of Mrs. Hudson when she answered the door, we knew that we had at least one more incident of note in store for us on that day. I rose to open our door and found most of Scotland Yard assembled in the hall.

  Lestrade was the first to enter, as lean, sallow, and ferret-like as ever, his dark eyes glancing rapidly around the room. He was attired in a pea-jacket and cravat, which gave him a decidedly nautical appearance, and he carried a long black canvas bag in his hand. With a short greeting he seated himself, and lit the cigar which had been offered to him. Behind him came his rival and opposite, Inspector Gregson, tall and flaxen-haired. He rushed forward and with his somewhat fat hands wrung my companion's with great effusion. Next, Athelney Jones, a portly man in a gray suit strode heavily into the room. He was red-faced, burly, and plethoric, with a pair of very small, twinkling eyes, which looked keenly out from between swollen and puffy pouches. In a muffled, husky voice he wheezed his congratulations to Holmes. Inspector Bradstreet was barely recognizable without his official peaked cap and frogged jacket, but his tall and stout frame and honest face soon made clear his identity. The battalion was completed with the presence of the smart-looking Inspector Lanner, the sharp, foxy Inspector Forbes, and of course, Mr. Mac.

  “Gentlemen!” Holmes exclaimed. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” His foul, knife-throwing mood was long past and apparently forgotten by all.

  Lestrade took the lead. Looking around at his fellows first, he cleared his throat. “There are those who wished to present you with a gift, Mr. Holmes, in recognition for you efforts at recovering that letter.”

  Holmes waved his hand dismissively. “It is hardly worth mentioning, Lestrade. Work is its own reward.”[163] I knew
that Holmes was not being modest. He craved not financial, but mental incentives, preferably via the most subtle and bizarre explanation possible so as to be a complete novelty compared to his repertoire of prior experiences. And this case certainly provided such a stimulus.

  Lestrade shook his head. “This is the kind of gift that you do not refuse, Mr. Holmes. It comes from someone much higher than us,[164] who clearly felt that Boxing Day was an appropriate time for passing this to you.”[165] He handed the long black bag to Holmes.

  My friend stared at it for some time, clearly trying to deduce what it contained. But even he, with powers of observation far beyond those of ordinary men, could not see through leather. “Open it, Holmes,” I finally insisted, eager to view its contents.

  “Very well, Watson.” He twisted the clasp and slowly opened the bag, which revealed a rich red velvet lining that protected a magnificent medieval sword, with a gently down-curving cross-guard. Its wheeled pommel displayed a heraldic lion and a small maker’s mark caught the light that reflected upon the polished blade. Holmes lifted the sword reverently from the bag and held it up for inspection by the now-silent group gathered in our rooms. “A princely gift,” said he, a rarely heard note of awe in his voice.

  “Literally, Holmes,” said I, holding up a note that I had plucked from the set-aside bag. “This is the sword of Sir John Chandos.”[166]

  “Ah, the advisor of Edward, the Black Prince, if I recall my history correctly,” said Holmes.

  “The note continues, Holmes,” said I, beginning to read. “‘A gentlemen, noble not by birth, but by deed alone, Sir John was not just the greatest warrior of England, but also the most strategic. Solely by his cunning devices was won the battles of both Crecy and Poitiers. As Edward well knew, a prince cannot rule effectively without the counsel of the wisest minds in the land. We have heard that you are an expert swordsman,[167] Mr. Holmes, and one who appreciates the history of the Middle Ages,[168] so we are entrusting this treasure to your worthy hands. Consider it a life bequest, which will ultimately revert to the Crown, so to be once again passed into the hands of another worthy knight, in deed, if not in name.” I looked up. “It is not signed.”